


I'm a Pack Animal (It's Unnatural)

by scrapbullet



Series: Teen Wolf Drabbles [12]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Banter, Healing, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mild Gore, Minor Character Death, and now he's playing babysitter, babysitter to an annoying kid that is, the only person that fucks with Peter Hale's pack is Peter Hale
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-27
Updated: 2013-07-27
Packaged: 2017-12-21 13:45:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,261
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/900981
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scrapbullet/pseuds/scrapbullet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Hey - wounded victim, here, okay?" His voice croaks weakly as he strains forward in an attempt to reach for the glass of water someone, thoughtfully, left on the coffee table - sweet, blissful h20. "Cut me some slack. I was gutted by the crazy twins and forced to eat something real funky by doc druid, and now you're playing babysitter. Don't know if you notice but I'm freaking out here."</p>
            </blockquote>





	I'm a Pack Animal (It's Unnatural)

He's going to die.

It's pretty simple, really. Death is an inevitability that creeps up on you when you aren't looking and shanks you in the gut - steps back and thinks, hey, maybe I'll stick around and watch the poor bastard bleed out, that sounds like fun - and leaves you wondering where the fuck it came from. Hell, Stiles has no idea how the fuck he even _got here_ , let alone the registration of the proverbial truck that hit him, and so here he is, lying in a pool of his own blood and having a bit of an existential crisis.

Yeah, _he's swearing a lot_ , can you blame him? His goddamn guts are on the _outside_ of his body, and last time he checked, they weren't supposed to flap freely in the wind. If he had any strength left at all he'd be tucking them back in to the cavity of his stomach, but he doesn't, so he just flops onto the ground and tries not to think about how much it hurts.

To the west there's the distant sound of an altercation - the low, sub-vocal growl of an extremely pissed-off Alpha interspersed with the dull thud of bodies hitting the forest floor and the smack of flesh to flesh. If Stiles concentrates, if he squints, he can even see the powerhouse silhouette of the twin Alpha's combined form, slashing away at Scott; who, being smaller, is quicker and more agile than his opponent.

There's a sudden howl, high-pitched and distinctly feminine, full of rage, cut short. Kali lands on her knees a foot away from him, mouth open in a silent scream as a hand slices through the air and slits her throat.

Blood, hot and wet, splashes his cheeks. Stiles coughs, the sound wet and thick in his throat, and when Deaton crouches beside him with Derek looming behind Stiles doesn't think he can stay awake anymore. He hurts, more than there are words to describe. He hurts, and Deaton cups his face, his fingers smelling like blood and spices and mountain ash, forcing Stiles to focus, forcing his eyes to open, to see.

_"Stay with us, Stiles. Stay with us-"_

When Deaton smears a bitter paste on his tongue, Stiles does what instinct dictates - he swallows, and hopes it'll be enough.

\---

"Y'know, you're not the first person to come back from the brink of death," Peter says, and although he sounds decidedly unimpressed he hasn't left Stiles' side in an hour - for once in his life taking Derek's orders seriously and poking at their resident patient until Stiles actually wants to scream. I mean, _seriously_ , when is he ever going to get any damn sleep?!

"Yeah, sorry, don't care. Tell me again what I did to get landed with you and not Scott, yeah? It's a fascinating story."

All that's left of their fun little excursion into Alpha-land is a scar, five inches in length and horizontal, and it _itches_. It's the only sensation Stiles has other than being so high on drugs that his head feels like it's full of cotton wool, and the only one stopping him from pawing uselessly at the thick wad of gauze and medical tape on his abdomen is, god forbid, Peter Hale.

Life really isn't fair, is it?

Peter hums, settling on Derek's couch only to prop his feet up on the coffee table, all blasé attitude. A clawed hand swipes at the air, as if to brush away not only Stiles' worries, but Stiles himself.

Hey, it's not like he's been told anything since he woke up. What happened? How did he survive? _What the hell did Deaton put in his mouth?_ Where the ever loving fudge is Scott?

Peter snarls in exasperation. " _Christ_ , will you just stop thinking already?"

Stiles swallows dryly, and almost coughs his guts up. 

"Hey - wounded victim, here, okay?" His voice croaks weakly as he strains forward in an attempt to reach for the glass of water someone, thoughtfully, left on the coffee table - sweet, blessed h20. "Cut me some slack. I was gutted by the crazy twins and forced to eat something real funky by doc druid, and now you're playing babysitter. Don't know if you notice but I'm freaking out here."

If Peter didn't notice before, he definitely does now - panic claws weakly within and Stiles struggles once more to sit up, only to be pushed back gently, cool glass a pressure against his lips. Warm, wide palms on his face guide his head back, just enough, and water gradually trickles into his parched mouth. 

It's bliss of the best kind.

When Peter takes the glass away he looks more resigned than annoyed. His hand rests on the curve of Stiles' neck, an anchoring weight, and as Stiles breathes the pain is gradually siphoned away. 

It feels good - better than what magical concoction Deaton had instructed Stiles to inhale. The vapours had tickled his throat, leaving behind an odd aftertaste that has yet to go away.

"You're human," Peter says, matter-of-fact. "Humans get hurt."

Peter's veins, black as pitch and protruding from the meat of his forearm, are a stark reminder - more than the low rumbling of irritation at being kept in the dark - of what actually happened that night.

Fuck. He almost died. As in guts-on-the-ground, prepare to draw the final curtain _almost died_. Dead end. End of the road. No three-point turns.

No turning back. Except for how he kinda _did_.

With a sigh Peter withdraws, rubbing at his bloodshot eyes. He looks tired in that way that only trauma and grief begets, a gauntness to his face that speaks of more than the effects of his generosity in taking away Stiles' pain. Hell, Peter looks _exhausted_. "Stiles; you're a liability."

 _Well_. That's... yeah. True, but rude.

"You're not invincible," Peter continues. "You're an idiot kid in a pack of wolves with no regard to your own, or others', safety. You may as well be walking around with a target painted on your back. What the hell you were even doing out there in the first place-" Words degenerate into a bark of aggravation, claws slicing in to the upholstery of Derek's couch with striking ease. 

Derek isn't going to be too pleased about that, Stiles muses. 

"So why do you care all of a sudden?"

"I _don't_."

With a slightly dopey shrug Stiles pats at Peter's knee. "Could've fooled me. So, Creepy Uncle Peter doesn't want me to die a horrible death, huh?"

Peter scoffs. "How about - I don't want you to break Derek's already splintered pack into a thousand pieces."

"Wow, Peter, _why don't you tell it like it is._ "

And that's when Peter kisses him.

It's not a good kiss, not really. There's far too much teeth, for one, and Stiles is a little too out of his head to reciprocate in the way that annoyed kisses from hot, somewhat crazy older guys should be reciprocated - if at all. Peter kisses like he wants to eat Stiles whole, licking into Stiles' mouth with a savage intensity, refusing to pause for breath. It's wet and it's messy, and Stiles whimpers as Peter sucks at his lower lip, always with the underlying threat of those lethal fangs.

When Peter pulls away Stiles gapes stupidly, torn between outrage and arousal. He licks his lips, dazed. "What the hell was that for?"

Peter rolls his eyes. "For someone so perceptive you're awfully good at being blind."

Stiles huffs, and settles back on the couch.

Huh. Who knew?

"...So where's Scott again?"


End file.
